Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Gran Margaret, swinging her legs off the bed.
Gran Margaret was eightyseven, and shed long since forgotten what that meant, but her grandson and greatgrandson kept urging her, tapping her with a cane now and then.
Stay in your blue stocking, and youll end up recalling your old selftoo late, youll see.
Now Gran Margaret grew gloomy, stayed in the bed, muttering at everyone at homeWhy did I raise you serpents so youd nap till noon?while pots clanged in the kitchen at half past six in the morning.
The household grew uneasy.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Avery, why dont you swear at us any more?
Its my time, dear, my time to go, Gran Margaret sighed, speaking of a deadline that felt either a sorrow for a life slipping away or a hope for something beyond the stew you all seem to have forgotten how to make.
Avery fled to the cloistered relatives in the kitchen.
Grans groundhog is dead! she announced, reporting the latest reconnaissance.
What groundhog? asked the family head, also Grans eldest son, Edward James, raising his bushy eyebrows.
He looked like a Black Forest sprite from a story, the sort of creature for whom the wind roams the streets.
Probably an old one, Avery shrugged. She had never been shown the creature, so what did it matter?
The elders exchanged glances.
The next day a composed, measured doctor arrived.
Somethings wrong with Gran, he declared.
Obviously, Edward slammed his hands on his thighs, what else would we call you?
The doctor eyed him, then his wife.
Agerelated, he said without hesitation. I see no serious abnormalities. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to cook lunch or dinner! All her life shes poked her nose in, saying my hands werent meant for work, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Edwards wife, herself already looking like a grandmother, croaked in a fallen voice.
At the familydoctor council they agreed it was a grave sign.
Wearied by worry they lay down to sleep, as if theyd slipped into a void.
In the night Edward woke to the familiar shuffle of slippers, but this time it wasnt frantic, it didnt demand an instant rise for breakfast or work.
Mum? he whispered as he stepped into the hallway.
A low, unceremonious reply drifted from the darkness.
Whats the matter?
Right, I think Ill slip off while youre all asleep and go on a date with Tommy Blake, Grans voice seemed to stir, halfgone. To the loo, where else?
Edward flicked on the kitchen light, boiled a kettle, and sat at the table, cradling his head.
Hungry? Gran stood in the corridor, watching him.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Gran Margaret shuffled to the table.
Its been five days Ive been cooped up in the room, she began, when a pigeon smacked the windowbang! I thought it was a death omen. I lay down, wait. Day after day, and now I wake in the dead of night thinking, Wouldnt that omen have liked to wander the moor to the devil, so I could burn my life under the sheets? Pour me some tea, hotter and stronger. Three days with you, son, we havent really spoken; well catch up.
Edward slipped back to sleep at half past five in the morning, while Gran Margaret remained in the kitchen, insisting on fixing breakfast herselfbecause those palehanded folk wouldnt be able to feed the children properly otherwise.
